


and our guards will give way

by SyntheticRevenge



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (Or after Epiphany ig), Alcohol, Feelings Realization, Fluff, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Minor Sasha James/Tim Stoker, Set after MAG22
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:41:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25896886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyntheticRevenge/pseuds/SyntheticRevenge
Summary: “My point was, like, look. I’d offer to let you sleep on my couch, but it’s a fucking uncomfortable couch, and I think you’d be so goddamned anxious about putting me out that it would just be a stressful experience for both of us.”“You’re...not wrong,” Martin says, face falling a little, shoulders hunching instinctively.“But if I hang out and have a small Feel Better Martin party in your general vicinity, you can’t stop me,” Tim says. “So. I’m gonna do that.”(Tim tries his best to cheer Martin up while he's stuck living in the Archives)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Comments: 22
Kudos: 190





	and our guards will give way

**Author's Note:**

> Man...Epiphany was so good. It just manifested Martim Rights fully formed in my brain, and I had to write something! I couldn't resist! I hope you enjoy.
> 
> (Title's from Be Good by Waxahatchee)

Martin’s getting used to the rhythms of living in the Archives, as much as he doesn’t really want to. Sasha usually leaves first, a few minutes before she’s technically supposed to, and he doesn’t really blame her for that, he’d do the same if he had anywhere to go and weren’t still stupidly desperate to impress Jon. 

Tim always watches her go with a tiny sigh, sometimes a little body-jerk, like he wants to follow, but he never does. That’s usually about when he starts harassing Martin, coming over to sit on his tiny desk and either completely talk shit or genuinely try to rope him into a relatively deep conversation about whatever horrific statement he’s been doing follow-up on. 

Mostly, Martin listens. He  _ does _ listen, it’s not like he tunes it out, but he never feels knowledgeable enough about anyone to gossip, or smart enough to have anything worth saying about the supernatural, or brutalist architecture, or culture-bound illness and how maybe that’s what’s affecting people with similar statements somehow. Not that he doesn’t have thoughts or ideas, just that he doesn’t want to embarrass himself. Would rather just let Tim get it all out of his system.

Then, usually, he leaves, with a smile Martin’s never been quite able to interpret, inevitable fingerguns, and always the exact same intonation on ‘see ya, Marto’. 

Jon’s last. Always. Martin’s usually in his first unsuccessful round of trying to sleep when he finally comes out of his office. Martin listens to him go, muttering to himself sometimes, and his heart skips with idiotic fantasies of bolting out of the room and asking Jon--well, it sort of blanks out there. He’s never managed to even plan what he’d say in this dumb hypothetical, because it gives him too much anxiety to even think about.

So he drops it, reluctantly, like a dog with an improvised toy it’s not supposed to have, and gives up on sleeping until the next try.

It’s sort of miserable, really. He hates sleeping in the Archives. They’re...well, they’re  _ spooky _ , sorry, Jon. It’s better than Artifact Storage, sure, but what isn’t? He just wants to go  _ home _ , and no amount of shitty poetry is ever going to fix that frightened, gaping void in his heart for a place where he can feel safe.

It’s exactly thirteen days of living in the Archives before Tim, as always, comes to sit on Martin’s desk, except instead of launching into whatever his mind’s set on today, he says “You must be getting pretty sick of living here.” 

(Maybe that  _ is _ what his mind’s set on, but that’s a pretty self-centered thought.)

“Uh, I mean, it’s not  _ terri _ \--” Martin starts, but Tim shakes his head, and presses two fingers to Martin’s lips, stunning him into silence. Tim really is the king of overly intimate gestures, though he doesn’t even seem to realize he’s doing it. 

“I’m not Jon or Sasha. Come on. Don’t lie. You’ve obviously been miserable.” Tim crosses his arms, which frees Martin’s face.

“Is it really obvious?” Martin asks, voice small.

“You can’t go home because you’ve been terrorized by a human wormhole,” Tim says. “Yes. I think it’s pretty fucking apparent that you’re having a bad time. Literally anyone would be.”

“No, but, really, it’s--”

“ _ Martin _ ,” Tim says. “No one expects you to be the Emotional Man of Steel. I mean,  _ no one _ expects that.”

“But...but I  _ want _ to look like Henry Cavill on the inside,” Martin says, softly, smiling at the desk.

“We all do! But that isn’t the point! I doubt even Henry Cavill looks like Henry Cavill on the inside!” Tim says. “Though I would  _ definitely _ be up to finding out.” Martin snorts, and Tim smiles at the sound. “My point was, like, look. I’d offer to let you sleep on my couch, but it’s a fucking uncomfortable couch, and I think you’d be so goddamned anxious about putting me out that it would just be a stressful experience for both of us.”

“You’re...not wrong,” Martin says, face falling a little, shoulders hunching instinctively.

“ _ But _ if I hang out and have a small Feel Better Martin party in your general vicinity, you can’t stop me,” Tim says. “So. I’m gonna do that.”

Martin laughs nervously. “Tim, I mean, really we’re not supposed to be here after--”

“What, are the Institute Police going to come arrest me? Is Bureaucratic Bouchard gonna physically manifest in the Archives and scold me? Come on, Martin,” Tim says. “Didn’t you ever read that book about those kids who run away and live in the museum? This is a  _ way _ shittier version of that, but still, always been a fantasy of mine.”

“But Jon--”

“Jon can either join us or make those fussy little noises, pretend he’s better than us, and leave like he always does whenever something fun happens within a twenty foot radius of him.” Tim slides off Martin’s desk and walks back to his, digging in the old, beat-up backpack he brings to work with him every day. He pulls out a bottle of wine, and turns to brandish it at Martin like it’s a gameshow prize before setting it on the desk, and then reaches back in his bag and presents Martin with a few old records in the same showy manner.

“What are the records for?” Martin asks, smiling wide despite himself. 

“Sasha says there’s a working record player in Artifact Storage,” Tim says, waggling his eyebrows.

“No,” Martin says. “Tim, no, that’s--we  _ cannot _ go into Artifact Storage at  _ night _ , and we  _ definitely _ can’t-- _ steal a record player _ .”

“We’ll put it  _ back _ .”

“What if it’s _ haunted,  _ Tim?” Martin hisses, then dimly registers how stupid that sounds. Tim grins, wickedly.

“I’m a licensed ghostbuster, don’t even sweat it, mate,” he says. 

“No. Nope. We’re not doing that.”

“I think you’ll feel differently once we get through the wine and there’s no music on, but what do I know,” Tim says, shrugging. “Hand me your mug.”

Martin bites his lip and picks up his mug, extending it out towards Tim, who, rather than uncorking the bottle, manages to stab a hole straight through the cork, allowing liquid to come out, albeit slowly. “Forgot a corkscrew?” Martin asks, suppressing a smirk, and Tim makes a frustrated sound in his throat.

“My grand gestures are an unstoppable force until they meet the immovable object of my inability to properly plan,” Tim says, nearly completely filling Martin’s mug with wine. “Just, you know, drink around the cork chunks.”

“I’ll do my best,” Martin says, more or less draining about half the mug in one go, and then trying not to choke on it or immediately spit it back up. He knows that at almost thirty he’s supposed to be mature enough to get the point of wine, but, well, he doesn’t. 

Tim snorts, watching him while sipping his own from his mug, which just reads ‘fuck’. He claims he found it and definitely didn’t buy it, but Martin’s never been sure he believes that. “What do you think happened to Jane Prentiss?” he asks, apropos of nothing. “I mean, why is she--”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Martin says, cutting Tim off before he can continue, and Tim quickly closes his mouth, nodding and smacking his forehead with the heel of his palm.

“Right, fuck, of course you don’t,” Tim says. “That’s my bad. I...I just never know what to talk about with you, you know? You never seem interested when I talk, I mean, you’re so polite and a really good listener, but, uh…” He clears his throat. “Just, what are you into? I...I feel like I don’t know enough. About...about you, I mean.”

“Oh,” Martin says, feeling himself flush. He blames the wine, but drinks more anyway, trying to think about the most socially acceptable things to list as interests. What do people even like? “Uh, I...I read a lot?” He shrugs. 

Tim’s been steadily draining his mug, and presses the back of his hand to his mouth as he swallows, nodding. “Okay, cool. What sort of stuff? Like, fiction? Or…”

“A lot of poetry, actually?” Martin says, unable to keep his voice from pitching up, desperate for approval, even as much as he’d love to not be. “And sci-fi, too, I guess.” He laughs nervously. “Anything with a good setting where people who care about each other stick together and fight for what they love.”

Tim keeps nodding, a smile spreading across his face listening to Martin. “I love that kind of stuff too. I mean, not that it’s  _ books _ , because I’m--” He puts on a Jon impression. “-- _ uncultured _ and  _ lazy _ , but I do love Star Wars.”

“ _ Really _ ,” Martin says, in mock surprise. “You? The man with the most real-life Han Solo energy I’ve ever seen on a person?”

Tim presses a hand to his heart. “Martin...that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” he says, breathily, obviously joking, but Martin has to briefly squint down at the desk, because his heart flutters a beat at the tone change.

Wine is terrible. He drains his mug anyway, and holds it out for more. Tim winks and fills both their mugs up, leaning across the gap between them to cheers him. They both drink in silence, and Martin sighs as the alcohol soaks into his brain and something close to a numb calm settles over him for the first time in weeks.

“You know, you were right,” Martin says. 

“I often am. What are we referring to?” Tim asks, cheerily.

“There should be music on,” Martin says, and Tim absolutely beams. 

“You’re goddamned  _ right _ there should be!” he says, slamming back the rest of the wine in his mug, pouring Martin what’s left in the bottle, and offering him a hand. He pulls Martin to his feet. “Okay. I’ve cased the joint. Everyone in Artifact Storage leaves, like,  _ wildly _ early, according to Sasha. Can’t really blame them, it is a  _ terrible _ place. So it should be empty.”

“What if it’s not?”

“Then we’re  _ adventuring, _ Martin.”

“Why are you--” Martin starts, then sighs, following Tim out of the Archives as he very theatrically looks around for people. “Why are you doing all this for me?”

Tim stops dead, turning to look at Martin. “Doing all what?”

“I don’t know!” Martin says, louder than he means to. He drinks deep to quiet himself down, even though the wine is definitely the problem with his volume regulation. He and alcohol have never been great friends. “Being nice! Bringing me wine! Taking me on a terrifying and definitely-not-worth-it adventure!”

“Martin...look, first off, being nice is a thing that everyone should do for everyone who deserves it,” Tim says. “And you  _ definitely _ deserve it.”

Martin feels himself blush bright red, which makes the corner of Tim’s lip twitch up. “Okay, but you’re still going out of your way to--”

“You’re having a really rough time, and no one here’s trying to make it better, and I...I can’t really tell if you have anyone else, but. It seems like you don’t,” Tim says. “Sorry, just, that’s...yeah.”

“You’re not wrong,” Martin says, softly, staring at Tim’s shoes. Old, scuffed boots with frayed laces. Lived in and well-worn, the kind of shoes that have been through actual fun life experiences. Martin suddenly abjectly hates himself. Wine really  _ is _ his mortal enemy.

“You’re a sweet guy, Martin,” Tim says. “I just wanted to do something for you to...I don’t know. To make you  _ smile _ , but like,  _ actually _ smile, because. Fuck it, I like it when you smile. And I sort of wanted it to be because of me, selfishly, in addition to the whole ‘wanting you to be happy’ thing.”

“Oh,” Martin says, eyes wide. 

“And now you’re not smiling! Because I’m fucking  _ terrible  _ at…” Tim sighs. “I’m sorry, I just...I’m sorry. I’m not good at--” He runs both hands back through his hair. “I  _ like _ you. And that sounds  _ so  _ fucking primary school.”

“No, that’s--” Martin says.

Tim clears his throat, awkwardly. “So, uh. Do you wanna steal a cursed record player, or…”

“I would love to,” Martin says, sincerely, smiling at Tim, who blushes. 

“Cool,” he says, coughing and looking away. “Well. Great. Let’s do that, then.”

“Tim, it’s, uh…” Martin sighs. “I like you too.”

“Wait, really?” Tim asks, head jerking back up, meeting Martin’s eyes. “I thought--I thought you were just...really whipped for Jon.”

“I…” Martin laughs, startled. “Uh. Well. You know. That’s probably futile, so.”

Tim looks like he wants to say something to that, opening his mouth and then closing it again, shrugging slightly. He smiles at Martin, a little mischievously. “D’you think you’d mind terribly if I kissed you?”

“You’ll get kissed when there’s proper mood music, Timothy, where’d you learn romance from?” Martin says, and Tim beams, laughing and looking away.

“I guess we’d better get on it, then.”

“I guess we’d better.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading <3 Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated!  
> Find me on tumblr @witnesstotheend and please, for the love of god, talk to me about martim.


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